


A Gay Romp in Le Gai Paris

by Possk



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Attempted canon-typical violence but he's fine everything's fine, Comedy, Fluff, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Trolls on Earth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 17:06:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16748083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Possk/pseuds/Possk
Summary: In a midnight stroke of brilliance, Dave elects to get shitfaced drunk. And apparently, getting drunk the night before you’re supposed to fly back to the US of A is a bad, terrible, no good idea.Upon extending his layover in Paris, Dave finds himself wrapped up in a myriad of shenanigans that threaten to ruin his impromptu trip. Good thing Karkat's there to save his ass before he winds up in the Seine.





	A Gay Romp in Le Gai Paris

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the probably butchered French. Haven't had classes in quite a while, but hopefully this is up to snuff enough.

Ah, France. The country of romance. Fine wine. Odiferous odors. Salted snails, and buttered frogs’ legs. A country truly without parallel—mostly because it was fictional.

No, ‘France’ as you knew it was nothing more than a cardboard Hollywood cutout sold to you since birth. You, like every other American your age, had suckled on the grandiose ideas proffered by regular box-office cinema hits, dreaming of the day where you too could be manipulated by a dexterous sewer rat. But now that you were here, you’d seen many a rat, but never one in any oversized chef hat.

That should have been your first clue.

It wasn’t. And now you’re paying for it.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you’re currently hauling ass down the streets of Paris.

How did you get here, you ask? Well, to be honest, you’d love to say you’re not sure. You’d love to say that you’re an innocent bystander caught in the midst of divinely wrought shenanigans, helpless to the whims of some mischievous fairy fuck named Puck after he’d gone and gotten himself hopped up on amphetamines. That the reason you’re currently drowning in mountains of Cajun, Jalapeno, Pepper, and Paprika is because he’d decided your life just wasn’t quite _spicy_ enough.

But that’d be lying.

And mama didn’t raise no liar.

(Of course, mama didn’t raise no nothing on account of mama not existing, but you digress.)

No, you knew damn well that your ample butt cheeks were here because you, in a midnight stroke of brilliance, had elected to get shitfaced drunk. And apparently, getting drunk the night before you’re supposed to fly back to the US of A was a bad, terrible, no good idea.

Let’s rewind.

See, you’d decided in your intoxicated stupor that since you had a layover in Paris, you’d just extend the travel time. You’d catch a flight later in the week and have a good three days to yourself to explore the historic metropolis. And so, you’d committed to your mistake, too smashed to care that the sudden change upped the price a good hundred euros in the process.

Oops.

Nevertheless, you’d landed in Charles de Gaulle that morning without a hitch, hopping off the plane with only a backpack full of clothes and a pair of bulky headphones to your name. Said name was now sans appropriate footwear, seeing as you’d wound up losing your converse in Romania during a freak avian accident, but c’est la vie, as the locals say. You had a spare.

(It’s not too much of a loss, honestly—who says crocs aren’t in style anymore? At least they’d never leave you. It’s irony to the fuckin’ nines up in there with early 2000s bling, anyways—haters gonna hate like it’s 2008. And the reaction people have when they glance down and see that blank, vacant Shrek expression smirking back at them? Priceless.)

((Yes, you have Shrek crocs. ‘Shrocs™,’ if you will. The green clashes terribly with your putrid pink shirt, yet somehow complements the equally ugly flamingoes decorating it. Haters gonna hate like it’s 1998.))

Once you’d squirreled your way out of customs, you headed outside and hailed down the first taxi you could find. It was a relatively quick process, with the car squealing close to the curb in seconds as soon as your feet had graced sidewalk pavement.

Of course, you didn’t realize _why_ the line had been nonexistent until about 20 kms (12 miles) later, when the driver turned around and demanded you cash out €150 for a 25-minute ride.

(((As it turns out, Paris has a taxi flat rate of €50, a pernicious pandemic of cab fraud, and a long-standing tradition of scamming naïve American tourists such as yourself. You’re a hater that’s hating like it’s 1988.)))

Not knowing what else to do, you’d shelled out your remaining funds, and. Well.

There went the last of your dough. Your bakery was now experiencing a 100% deficit in the stuff. No flour, no yeast, no nothin’. Not even a trickle to water your parched wallet. You’d single-handedly bankrupted the Pillsbury Doughboy and left him to the stripper pole just to make ends meet.

And thus: you were now more penniless than a Victorian peasant. In a city you’d never been to. In a foreign country whose language you didn’t speak. In antiquated Shrocs™ that rubbed your sweaty ankles raw with foam rubber sandpaper.

And—perhaps most importantly—you were stranded without a place to stay for the next several days.

Needless to say, by the time noon rolled around, you’d been starting to feel like absolute dog shit. A real turd sundae left to fester in the sun, leaving nauseated patrons vomiting up and down the Champs-Élysées.

But hey—when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Sure, you may be nearly 700 miles and over a thousand kms away from the Italian capital, but it’s still Europe, right? Shit doesn’t even break beyond Texan borders, comparatively. It can’t be _that_ different, so the principle still applies.

You were in Paris, stuck one way or another, so you might as well enjoy it. Food and shelter could momentarily be put on hold; you’d figure out the details later.

As such, you’d thumbed through your phone, careful to preserve its remaining battery power, and routed a map to the Canal Saint-Martin—a location Google promised was the quote-unquote ‘hippest’ district north of the Seine. It boasted a real hipster scene and plenty of street art, so while you wouldn’t be able to afford jack diddly, you could at least snort those sweet, sweet artistic toxins like fine cocaine.

Much like your initial decision to extend your layover, this too turned out to be a bad, terrible, no good idea.

You hadn’t planned to get lost. Of course, no one ever _plans_ to get lost, except those pompous “you can only explore a city by getting lost in it” know-it-alls vying for your untimely mugging behind an alleyway dumpster. You’d just shrugged on your headphones and tuned into some bodacious beats of your own making, snapping your fingers in time to the music and promptly ignoring the attention of the outside world. You hadn’t intended to get so lost in your own head that you lost yourself in the real world, too. But soon enough, you found yourself off the beaten path, with nary a tote-bag or vintage thrift store in sight.

What was in sight, however, was a scruffy, middle aged white guy in your peripheral vision who’d been trailing you for the past two perimeter blocks. His clothes were striped and grubby, like a mime who had just finished crawling his way out of Oscar the Grouch’s garbage can, and his spindly legs had twitched uncontrollably as he skulked after you. Anxiety mounting, you’d stopped snapping and picked up the pace, only to hear his own hastened footsteps clapping against the pavement behind you.

This prompted you to make perhaps your final bad decision of the day. Heart pounding against your ribcage, you whirled around to face the French fuck.

“Hey! You—wait, uh, you probably can’t understand me,” you had started, tugging your headphones off as he came to an abrupt halt. “Shit, I guess we’re Pocahontas and John Smith without any ole granny willow tree to make us listen with our hearts or whatever colonialist crap the Mouse was spewing chunks of that day. Real fuckin’ pity, honestly. Could’ve had us a right Disney classic here, an old-fashioned French-American romance of the ages, but we had to go and toss Grandma Willow in the fuckin’ wood chipper. She’s screaming and hollering and now we’re all out here understanding jack shit, like it’s the Tower of goddamn Babel all over again. Man, oh man, we should’ve listened to FernGully when we had the chance. Robin Williams tried to warn us, tried to tell us that oh, shit dude, you’re gonna deforest so hard you implode linguistics out the Biblical wazoo, but did we listen? Of course not, the Batty Rap left us deaf with tinnitus to boot. Like—"

The man, apparently unimpressed by your incomprehensible drivel, had taken a deliberate step forward. You’d gulped.

Right. Okay.

“But, um. I digress, I’m getting off topic. What’s, uh. What’s the skinny, Jimmy?”

“Give me money,” the man had said gruffly, his thick accent choking all semblance of proper pronunciation. “Donne-moi ton argent!”

Ouch. Straight to the fuckin’ point, you could almost cut yourself on its tip.

“Listen, my dude. There is nothing in the fuckin’ _world_ I’d love more than to dish out my debit card and flood your bank account right now with some Benjamins, but—"

“Money. Now,” he had interrupted. “Ou je vais te tuer!”

“Jesus, I’m upset too bucko, but watch the fucking language. Didn’t your mother ever teach you manners? You’re upsetting all the Southern belles. Ladies are fainting left and right, clutching polka dotted hankies to their bosoms and calling goddamn timber over the act you’re pulling.”

“Donne-moi ton argent!” he’d snarled. “Or I kill you. _Je te tuerai!_ ”

Rut-roh.

“Well, uh, it was great getting to know you too, dude,” you’d said, slowly backing up. “But this ole Joe has to see a man about a horse, you feel me? It’s swamp crotch city down in here. You know how it is with us Americans, we’re like. Human super soakers, absolute units of fetid diarrhea. Comes with the territory of being a world power, I guess, always getting high off our own supply of fermenting bullshit.”

The man had taken another step forward, and you’d taken another backwards.

“Right, you get it, you’re jiving with this vibe. Knew you and I had a connection the moment we laid eyes, dog. So, if you don’t mind, I’m just gonna take a rain check on this conversation and fuck right off, aight? We cool?”

Cool as a fucking cucumber, frigid in its Tupperware prison just north of the Arctic circle.

But apparently, still not cool enough. Goddamn global warming.

With a flick of his wrist, the man had unpocketed his knife, looking ready to wreck your shop. The blade itself had triggered an impending wave of nausea in your gut, one which threatened to upturn your breakfast onto the sidewalk, and your heartbeat had picked up pace tenfold. He then started rushing you, intent crystal fucking clear.

You didn’t need a translator to tell you your ass was about to get itself shanked.

Ah, son of a fuck.

Cursing the life choices that had led you there, you had whirled back around and started booking that white suburban ass for the Seine. And so, here you are now, darting between Parisian side streets and alleyways like your life depends on it. Which, if the guy still screaming for your wallet and bloodied guts is anything to go by, it probably does.

The Parisians are surprisingly unhelpful.

“Hey! Yo! Little fuckin’ diplomatic assistance here?!”

You aren’t sure if this is because you are yelling for help in a language they don’t understand, or if they simply don’t care. Either way, nobody steps to your aid, even as you pass by several populated areas with the guy hot on your tail.

One troll definitely notices your plight, but rather than standing up to do something, hell, _anything_ , he merely waves and—fuck, is he _laughing?_

“Tu, l’Américain! Tu cours mal!” he howls after you, slapping his knee with a grin. “Ceci--c’est une bonne pratique!”

Okay, so maybe you don’t know French, but dickassery? Dickassery transcends all language barriers. And right here, right now, your radars are picking up an absolute metric _shit_ ton of dickassery in the area.

What the fuck.

The guy is still following you after ten solid minutes.

Aren’t the French infamous for giving up? Why the fuck can’t they give up _now?!_

Lungs screaming for release, you vault atop a nearby set of stairs, scrambling to your feet as the man follows you from below. Your muscles burning and palms stinging from impact, you whip around another corner, when—

A hand grabs you firmly by the neck collar from behind. With a strangled yelp, you’re jerked backwards and pulled through a door, only narrowly avoiding falling flat on your ass. The hand’s owner is quick to bolt the lock shut and close the window drapes.

“Ta gueule toi,” it—he?—growls, with an authority you are in no mood to question. Heart pounding in your throat, you instead choke down your pants with sharp, short gasps. Nausea once again threatens to overwhelm you, and it takes all your concentration not to upchuck all over your rescuer’s (?) carpet.

Several minutes pass, with the stranger’s ear pressed intently against the door. Finally, when no one shows signs of knocking, he leans back with a grunt and turns around.

You’ve long since collapsed in a sweaty, trembling mess on the floor, knees clutched to your chest as it tightens under the weight of palpitations. The man—troll, you realize as he flips a light switch—kneels beside you. In your stupor, you notice his hair’s a tangled black mop, with two candy corn horns just barely sneaking beyond its reach. Frowning, he waits until your breathing finally slows to cautiously pat your shoulder. You involuntarily flinch, however, and he immediately retracts his hand, concern deepening in his red eyes.

“Ça va?” he asks, voice hoarse and gravelly. It gives you the addled impression that he must be used to shouting. “Es-tu blessé?”

You must look as confused as you feel, and the troll clicks his tongue in thought.

“Are you okay?” he amends. Oh thank fuck, he knows English.

“Been better, my dude, been better,” you wheeze. The palpitations are at least softening, and your body doesn’t feel like it’s flushing hot-and-cold anymore.

After a moment’s hesitation, he stands up again and pads toward the other room. He comes back soon after with a glass of water, which you take gratefully.

“Don’t down it all in one go,” he says. The more he talks, the more you notice how pronounced his accent is. “You’re human, not a goldfish, and it’ll make you sick.”

“Right,” you say. You take what you presume is a small enough swig, only to cough your lungs out when it goes down the wrong pipe. Unimpressed, the troll gives you a ‘what did I just fucking tell you’ expression. Whoops. “Uh, thanks for saving my bacon out there, be-tee-dubs. That guy was ready to go to fuckin’ town on Uncle Sammy’s discount ham wagon, with my buttered buns as the main course, and lemme tell you, shit’s enough to make a dude go kosher. Hell, I’ll even go vegan and never touch a porkchop again so long as it keeps me off the chopping block.”

The troll pauses.

“I take it back. You’re not a human, you’re an idiot.”

“Same difference,” you shrug, taking another drink. “But seriously, thanks. Does that, uh, happen often around here?”

“Regularly enough.” He disappears again, but his voice is loud enough to carry across France, much more so a tiny…apartment? You think? You didn’t have much of a chance to see the outside building, and the room you’re in now is pretty unassuming: just some drawers and a weathered couch off to the side. “You’re a tourist, and on top of that, you’re American. Match made in fucking heaven as far as con artists are concerned.”

“Lucky me,” you say dryly. Finishing your glass, you place it beside you on the floor.

The two of you lapse into silence. Well, silence enough. You still hear him rummaging around—through the kitchen, maybe?—muttering what you can only assume are various French curses under his breath in pursuit of…whatever he’s looking for. While you’re sure it’s only a minute or two, you can’t help but start to get antsy the longer he’s out of sight.

This guy didn’t save you just to finish you off himself, did he? He’s certainly bulky enough, and although his teeth aren’t as sharp as other canines you’ve seen trolls sporting, they’re certainly not dull, either. No—no, of course not, that’s ridiculous. But. You’ve had enough of a crazy day as is. You wouldn’t put it past the fates to screw around even further with the roller coaster that is your life. The gray walls around you seem to close in.

You decide to cut the tension by doing what you do best: talking out your ass.

“I gotta say,” you hum, drumming your fingers across your leg, “as someone who’s prone to panic attacks, it’s nice to have one that’s like. Actually reasonable, y’know? Like oh, fuck, finally, I have a perfectly valid excuse to have my heart go into near cardiac arrest. Usually it starts thump, thump, thumping over stupid shit, like sudden loud noises or people getting up in my biznatch without warning, but mugging? People _get_ mugging. Nobody’s gonna fuckin’ belittle my anxiety there. Piss on that, society, your social norms bullshit can’t judge me now.”

The kitchen’s rummaging quiets. Slowly, ever so slowly, the troll peers out over the edge, a look of dumbfounded disbelief etched into his face. He just. Stares at you, like he can’t believe you’re a real-life person really sitting on his living room floor.

Well. Get used to it, buddy.

Or. At least, please get used to it. You don’t need to be thrown back out to the dogs.

“So, uh. Yeah.” You rub the back of your neck awkwardly. “Name’s Strider, Dave Strider.”

He blinks. And blinks again. It takes him several seconds and a thorough head shake to recover.

“Well, ‘Strider,’” he says with so much venom, you’re surprised you don’t start dissolving in acid, “ _thank_ you. Thank you so _much_ for giving me the pleasure of enduring what I can only describe as a dissociative episode just now because I was so unable to process the absolute trash tumbling out of the garbage chute you call a talk blaster.”

“You’re welcome, my guy. More than happy to provide.” This seems to rile the dude up even more. You know you shouldn’t be antagonizing your rescuer and current host, but. Damn if it isn’t a little hilarious.

“Oh my aching bone bulge, do you _ever_ shut up?”

“Naw.”

The troll’s eyes narrow, as if he’s going through the five stages of grief in his decision to save you. Instead of responding, he ducks back into the kitchen again. This time, however, he’s gone for only a few moments before returning with a first-aid kit and—wow, he made you a sandwich?

“Here,” he says, thrusting the plate into your hands. “Your mere existence is more of a fucking headache than I could have ever imagined, but you know what? Fuck it, I’m already committed, might as well follow through on it. Now, for all that is fucking holy, shut up and eat while I patch you up.”

The troll leaves you no room to argue as he gets to work applying antiseptic cream and bandages to your various cuts and scrapes. Honestly, it’s not really needed—lord knows you’ve had far worse injuries over the years, and a few scratches won’t kill you—but you appreciate the gesture nonetheless. Since he doesn’t look like he intends to murder you any time soon, you decide to play along and munch quietly on your PB&J.

You notice that, for whatever reason, he looks… _uncomfortable_ as he works. Almost sick, even. His face is scrunched up, and his long ears are flattened with disdain. Huh. Your injuries aren’t particularly bad—the worst is just the scrape on your palm. Maybe he just doesn’t have the stomach for blood, then? Much unlike the rest of his kind. With that realization, you can’t help but appreciate his help even more.

“Karkat,” he says after a few minutes, dabbing at one last graze on your elbow. “Vantas.”

“Gesundheit.”

He shoots you a withering look, one that could curdle milk and wilt daisies on sight. You stare back with a straight face, tearing off another bite.

“My name, dumbass. My _name._ It’s Karkat Vantas. Kar-kat. Van-tas.”

“Car cat? Like beep beep meow?”

Oh. Oh, okay. Hm. Maybe you really ought not to provoke him. Karkat looks ready to commit serial slaughter with the way his right eye is twitching. He throws up his hands in defeat and stands, grumbling to himself in French.

“C'est ce que vous obtenez pour avoir de l'empathie, Vantas! Une moule à merde! Il est un caca boudin! Pourquoi êtes-vous intervenu, passé Karkat?!”

Now, you don’t know a lick of French, but it doesn’t take a genius to recognize he’s reaching his limit. You can’t help but feel a little bit bad—he did risk his neck for you, and save yours in the process.

“Sorry, man,” you say, interrupting his denigrating diatribe. “For real. My internal bullshit meter starts rolling off the charts when I get freaked the fuck out, and like.... I dunno. It’s just been a long, long day. Thanks again, seriously.”

Karkat squints. He looks over you, checking for any signs of insincerity, but naw, son. You’re realer than Kraft mayo here. You guess he reaches the same conclusion, since he sighs and sits back down with a loud thud.

“Much as I hate to admit it—and I cannot emphasize enough just how utterly revolting I find this realization—I’d probably be a little shit too if I nearly got mugged in a foreign country,” Karkat grouses eventually. “It’s not exactly the most _welcoming_ experience. What the fuck even happened to you, anyways?”

As you relay your story, from first getting drunk to getting scammed to booking it through Paris, Karkat’s expression grows increasingly worn, as if your shit luck’s draining him of his very life force. By your tale’s end, he’s palming his forehead and groaning.

“Let me get this straight,” he says, dragging his fingers down his face. “You, in a feat of truly _spectacular_ idiocy, decided to change your travel itinerary last minute, lost all your money to cab fraud, _and_ nearly got yourself mugged _?_ And you’re here for three _days?_ ”

“That about sums it up, yeah.”

Karkat gapes, jaw slack open in disbelief. You shrug, a little self-consciously.

“No wonder people keep trying to take advantage of you,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I thought it was just because you look like a dumb American tourist, but apparently you’ve put the emphasis on _dumb_.”

“Right, got’cha the first time on that dumb American front,” you say, rolling your eyes. “How d’you even know I’m from the States, anyways?”

Karkat arches his brow.

“Are you blind? You stick out like a severed sore thumb bleeding red, white, and blue. For all practical purposes, you’re screaming you’re American with a fucking fog horn when you’re wearing,” he waves noncommittally, “ _that._ ”

“Dude. You just gestured to all of me.”

“So you do have eyes,” he sighs. “People here can spot a tourist a mile away, and your shoes—”

“Shrocs™,” you supply. Karkat glares.

“—your _shoes_ look like they’ve just crawled out of Dante’s ninth circle of hell. Besides, there’s no mistaking your accent. We don’t have that many Matthew McConaughey-types naturally running around Europe.”

“That’s probably for the best, honestly.” You think back to your best buddy John’s obsession and shudder.

“Do you even have a place to stay?” Karkat demands.

“See, before, that was a problem for future Dave,” you say, scratching your temple. “Future Dave was supposed to have enough money to scrape by for a couple of nights in a shabby two-star motel this side of the Seine, where he’d promptly leave three-star Yelp reviews applauding the institution for its preferability to a night in the ditch. Now? Now present Dave’s flat broke, so uh. I guess Google which is the cheapest hostel in the city and pray to fuck not all my cards are maxed out?”

Karkat facepalms so hard, he nearly gives himself a nosebleed.

“What kind of fucking obstinate, braindead _man-child_ doesn’t book his hotel _before_ he leaves?!”

“This kind of fucking man-child, I guess. In my defense, I was drunk as a skunk. Logical reasoning really ain’t in the cards when you’re under the table dicking around on TripAdvisor.”

“Some advice it gave you,” Karkat scoffs.

“Yeah, well, I’ll be sure to leave a one-star review,” you mutter.

The gravity of the situation begins to dawn on you. That good ole anxiety starts up again in your gut once you realize that yeah, you’re really stuck in Paris without a dime to your name or a roof over your head, and _yeah,_ you’re more than a little screwed.

Perhaps sensing your heightening apprehension, Karkat intervenes before you full on spiral.

“We need to call the police,” he says abruptly, standing to his feet. “Paint a pretty picture of that hemorrhoid encrusted asshole so they can pick him up off the streets before he does any real damage.”

“Yeah, yeah…we’ll, uh. Be all Picasso up in this bitch, I guess. Get real cubical and rectangular, maybe even circular if we’re feeling daring.”

“I know you’re a load gaper that’s somehow attained sentience, but I swear to Christ, if you describe him in _shapes,_ I’m going to wrench you free from the plumbing fixtures enabling your stupidity and leave you to rot in a goddamn landfill.” Karkat pinches the bridge of his noise with a withering sigh. “Now, what was that number...”

“What, you mean 911?”

“Hop off your American centric thinking for a second and remember we’re in Europe, Dave. No, we need to call the French equivalent, and I can never remember which is which. For whatever ungodly reason, France decided to be an absolute dipshit and create an absolutely unnecessary dipshit conundrum over its emergency numbers. Nobody needs ten fucking numbers!” He wrings his hands in frustration, and that gives you the impression it’s a subject that has clearly chafed his undercarriage raw more than a few times in the past.

He dials a few times before he finally reaches the correct one, 17. You relay as much information as you can, down to the guy’s striped clothing and twitchy limbs, which Karkat then translates over the phone. After a few minutes, he gives a final nod and hangs up.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands together. “The police will keep an eye out. Now, do you have any bags?”

“Paper or plastic?” You swear a vein pops in his temple.

“Bags as in _bags,_ you malnourished gremlin of fuck!” Karkat snaps, stomping his foot. “Why the shit would I be talking about something like Franprix?!”

“I dunno,” you shrug. “Maybe you were interested in hearing adolescent anecdotes of my life as a grocery bagger. Like how one time I kept having to tell old granny Smith that no, we don’t sell raspberry Butt Frosters, why don’t you go check K-Mart down the street. She’s all giving me lip, saying to leave my cushy register and check in the back again, but the line’s growing behind her and I’ve meanwhile run outta baggies, and I’m forced to resign myself to an eternal damnation in customer retail hell for whatever crime I committed in a past life.”

“Putain de merde!” Karkat says with a groan. “Congratu-fucking-lations, you’ve succeeded in dragging me down into hell with you. Fine, _fine,_ I’ll put it so even the rodents gnawing on your think pan will understand: do you have _suitcases?_ Any _carry-on bags?”_

Oh. “I’ve just got my backpack here,” you say, throwing your thumb over the back of your shoulder.

“See, was that so hard?! Just a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question! I wasn’t asking you how to fucking calculate maths physics! Tu as le cervau d'un sandwich au merde!”

“Hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life, man. Bee-tee-dubs, why d’you keep cursing me in French when you know I can’t understand you?”

This seems to give the incensed troll paused for thought.

“I’m bilingual so I might as well exercise my vocabulary,” he says finally. “If not, I’ll start to forget, and you’re easy target practice when you can’t understand me.”

“Bilingual, huh?” you say, tapping your chin. “Makes enough sense. You don’t want to become _bye_ -lingual—"

If looks could kill, you’d be pushing up daisies several times over.

“Besides,” Karkat continues, waving his hand dismissively, “no singular language can fully encapsulate my rage. Some things just sound better in French. Like ‘tu pétes plus haut que ton cul'—'you fart higher than your ass.’ As in, you’re a big-headed moron, one who needs to undergo immediate surgery to salvage anything left of your brain cells. All that mental flatulence you’re expelling has inflated your nugbone and suffocated your think pan.”

“Colorful.”

“But ANYWAYS, allow me to introduce a perfectly timed and in no way forced segue because fuck you I said so:  I was _asking_ because I want to know how much space I need to make way for your shit.”

Wait. What.

“Hey, wait, hold the phone,” you say, pushing yourself off the floor to stand beside him. He’s about a foot shorter than you, lanky twig that you are, but you can’t imagine your size intimidates him when most trolls look like they can bench small elephants. “Why, what’s going on?”

Karkat’s ears twitch. “I mean, you don’t have anywhere else to stay, so isn’t the obvious solution to just stay here?”

Um.

…Huh.

Someone…actually being this nice to you is unheard of, almost. People have been nice to you, of course. You doubt you’d be here period without your friends back home. But strangers? Just handing out their home on a silver platter, no strings attached?

You brain sort of blue screens as you process the generosity of his offer. You must stay quiet for too long, however, since Karkat’s eyes widen and he starts waving his hands back and forth.

“Wait, fuck, no I didn’t mean— _shit,_ I didn’t want to be weird, I just. Ugh.” He shakes his head and facepalms. “As much as your inane rambling makes me want to undergo a fucking lobotomy, I’d feel like an absolute horse’s ass if I threw you out onto the street with nowhere to go.”

Karkat’s evident distress over being a decent fucking human being is enough to jumpstart your vocal cords again.

“Whoa, slow down dude,” you say, carding your fingers through your hair. “No, like—fuck, that’s like the nicest crap anyone’s ever offered me, don’t feel bad about being a good person, holy shit.”

This seems to get Karkat’s attention. He rubs the back of his neck, averting his gaze awkwardly.

“Fuck if I know about ‘good person,’ but your luck’s shit as is and you’re about as threatening as mild flatulence. I don’t want your bloated carcass to weigh on my conscience if I set you free and find you on tomorrow’s cover of le Monde as ‘idiot American, found dead in a ditch.’”

“Right,” you snort. “I…fuck, man. You’ve saved my bacon from old Sammy’s twice today, I don’t know how to thank you.”

Embarrassed, Karkat gives a half-hearted shrug.

“Thank me in not spewing more bullshit all over my carpet, I guess. Not enough fucking water pressure in the world to remove the verbal stains you’ve left on it.”

“Can’t promise that, man.”

“Of course you can’t,” he sighs.

“Do I, uh…” You feel a little dumb asking—Karkat doesn’t seem to be _that_ kind of guy, thank fuck—but you better. Make sure you’re on the same page, nevertheless. “You’re not…expecting anything, right? Cause, like, um—”

“Expect?” he echoes, arching his brow. “The fuck should I be expect—” It takes a few seconds for it to dawn on him, and his face immediately flushes scarlet. “NO! Oh, fuck no holy shit, no, never!”

“Glad I’m so desirable,” you say dryly.

“You know what I mean!” Karkat snaps.

As much as you enjoy taking the piss out of him, you can’t help but feel relieved. Unless Karkat’s a goddamn good actor, he seems genuine enough in his motives. No faking the bright red storm spreading across his cheeks, neck, and ears.

Huh. He must be a…what do trolls call it, burgundy blood? Interesting.

“Aight, okay, good. Solid. Just…needed to make sure, y’know? No offense intended, bro.”

“Whatever,” Karkat says, still obviously mortified at the prospect. “Just…feel free to sit down again, I’ll start making the bed. You can sleep there tonight. I’ll spend the night on the couch. We’ll figure out food and shit later.”

You start to protest, that he’s already done enough to put Mother fucking Theresa to shame, but he cuts you off with a wag of his finger.

“Don’t argue with me,” he grunts, already heading to the other room. “I spend most nights there anyway, and I’ll just wake you up with my insomnia if you stay there instead.”

Not knowing what else to do, you shoulder off your backpack and pop a squat.

You’ve fully calmed down now, and the post-adrenaline rush is hitting you like a freight train. Exhaustion courses through you, and you don’t even realize you’ve laid down until the hinges of your shades start pressing uncomfortably against your temple. You roll over on your back.

“Right, so. This is my life now,” you mumble, barley choking back a yawn. You hug your backpack to your chest as a lumpy, makeshift pillow. “This is my life and the floor is my spouse.”

“I don’t remember authorizing this partnership,” Karkat says from the room over.

“Too bad, we’re married and I’m taking it on the best fuckin’ honey moon of its life. See, we’re already in Paris aight…got this romance shit…on lockdown…”

You don’t hear his inevitable quip and are out cold on the spot.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're thinking to yourself, 'this is too specific to be fictional,' you'd be 100% correct. Ripped off my friend's adventure to Paris, from getting drunk, to getting scammed, to getting nearly mugged and running over a mile without help, to not having a place to stay. Dave at least finds Karkat; friend had to deal with the cheap ass hostel. Real life is sometimes stranger than fiction, folks. Absolutely couldn't Not write this shit once he told me about it. I've wanted to write something set in Europe for some time since I left London, so it was fun having a take on this.
> 
> Decided to break this up into at least two parts because I want to expand on his trip and show off Paris a bit. Loved the city when I went during the summer and want to contrast how ridiculous the first part is with a much cheerier, more positive look at France in the second.


End file.
